


There is water at the bottom of the ocean.

by ariadnes_string



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-05
Updated: 2010-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson is ill; House is avoiding something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is water at the bottom of the ocean.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary from [that Talking Heads song](http://www.lyricsfreak.com/t/talking+heads/once+in+a+lifetime_20135070.html).  
> a/n: expert beta from [](http://debbiel66.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**debbiel66**](http://debbiel66.dreamwidth.org/)\--all remaining gaffs my own.

  
**There is water at the bottom of the ocean**

House showed up around two.

Somebody's finger went down on the buzzer and didn't let up, so there was no real question as to who Wilson was going to find on the other side of the door. Of course, by the time he'd wearily pushed himself to his feet to open it, House had already let himself in with the key he'd never even considered returning.

"What're you doing here?" Wilson asked, swallowing a cough.

"Cuddy," House answered, as if that answered everything, "Told me you'd gone home; that you were _this_ close to pneumonia." He held up his thumb and forefinger, a quarter inch apart. "Sent me to check on you."

"I'm fine," Wilson protested, but House ignored him, just limped past into the kitchen, overflowing shopping bag in hand. Wilson sighed; he should have known Cuddy would rat him out, after the scene in her office that morning.

++++++

"Sam let you out of the house looking like that?" she'd asked sharply as soon as he'd pushed open her office door, answering her summons for a consult.

"Not Sam's fault," he'd protested hoarsely, "she's in Boston—conference. And I'm fine—just a cold." Unfortunately, stringing so many words together had set off a round of harsh coughs. They'd ripped through him, stealing his breath until he was clinging to the door handle in an undignified attempt to stay upright. _When had it gotten so bad?_ he wondered, _he hadn't realized it was this bad._

"Last week it was a cold," Cuddy had said, coming around her desk, "this week it's a hacking cough and," cool fingers had brushed across his cheek, "a raging fever. Sit down." She'd sounded half concerned, half exasperated. "Better yet—lie down."

Wilson had sunk onto her couch, grateful to get off his feet, but stubbornly resisted the pull of the horizontal. Cuddy had handed him a bottle of water and punched a number into her desktop phone.

"I'll be okay," he'd said weakly, "just waiting for the Tylenol to kick in."

"And when did you take that?' She'd been dubious.

"I don't know--before I left--maybe eight-ish,"

"And it's almost ten now," she'd pointed out, "so I can't say it's doing you much good. Yes," she'd said, as someone picked up on the other end, "can you send a nurse over with a kit—no, nothing urgent—thanks."

"You're calling a _nurse_?" Wilson had asked, aghast.

"What? You'd rather I called a doctor? Walk you straight down for a chest x-ray?"

He'd shut up.

The nurse, when she came, was named Monica. She'd looked about twelve, and a little freaked out to find the Head of Oncology pale and shivering on the Dean of Medicine's couch. Cuddy, thankfully, had taken his temperature and listened to his lungs herself, albeit under Monica's slightly bugged-eyed gaze.

"Bronchitis," she'd concluded, "but it'll be pneumonia soon if you're not careful." She'd pressed a 'scrip into his hand. "Fill this, go home, and don't come back until 24 hours after the fever breaks."

Then she'd broken her stern demeanor, pressed a kiss against his temple, and said, "I mean it, James, get some rest. Do you want me to call Sam?'

"No, no," he'd said, "I'll call her." But he hadn't.

Cuddy had apparently called House.

+++++++

House raked his eyes over the apartment. Wilson knew what he was looking for: changes; signs of feminine habitation; signs of Sam. He could see House's eyes catching on the bowl of flowers in the middle of the table, the yellow silk scarf draped over the mirror by the door.

But House didn't say anything, just started unpacking the shopping bag.

"Groceries?" Wilson asked, propping himself up against the counter as House efficiently stowed carrots, lemon grass, a bulky package wrapped in butcher's paper, and the Canada Dry ginger ale that was his one-size-fits-all remedy for every ailment in their proper places; no need to ask where anything went, of course. "You brought me—groceries?"

"Not groceries," House announced, clearly pleased with his own ingenuity, "Soup."

"Wait," Wilson said, things clicking into place, "Cuddy didn't send you to check up on me, did she? You're avoiding something. She told you I was sick, and you used that as an excuse to come hide out here. You've even brought your own time-consuming project. What is it? Sleeping with her not getting you out of clinic hours like you hoped? Does she even know you're here?"

"You're sick," House countered, completely ignoring the questions, "sick people need soup—Though not as much as they need stronger antibiotics," he changed course again as he picked up the prescription bottle sitting next to the sink, "_This_ is what she sent you home with?"

"No," Wilson admitted, "I got them to swap it out at the pharmacy. Anything stronger makes me sick, you know that." He sounded whiny—he hated sounding whiny.

"Yeah, and a little nausea is _so_ much worse than having your lungs fill up with fluid. I'm calling in another 'scrip, Chase can run it over--" House had his phone half out of his pocket already.

"House—it's only been a few hours—give it chance--"

"Oh, okay," House rolled his eyes and gave him an annoyed look, "But at least go lie down—you look like you're about to turn into a puddle of goo. Technically speaking, that is."

It was an accurate diagnosis. Wilson sat back down heavily in front of the open laptop on the table. He'd tried not to work—he really had. He'd changed into jeans and his heaviest sweatshirt as soon as he got home, chilled despite the mild September weather. He'd even stretched out on top of the covers on the bed, thinking he might nap. But lying down made the coughing worse, and he'd kept remembering another email he'd left unanswered, another patient he'd yet to follow up on, and sleep wouldn't come. Finally, he'd flipped open the laptop, and doggedly attempted to catch up on things.

He squinted at the screen, suddenly unsure of which messages he'd read.

The palm on his forehead caught him unawares. "That's quite the temp you're running there, Sparky," House said, "I'm having second thoughts about those stronger meds already."

"Oh, please. It's only been one dose so far—" Wilson retorted weakly.

"Mmmhmm, you're right," House said, in mock-concession, "one dose and hours of you hunched over your files, working yourself into a fever like a character in a Dickens novel. Tell you what. You lie down quietly like a good boy, close your eyes, and I'll wait a few hours before I call in the Zithro."

Wilson gave in, and it was only after he was sitting on the couch, nursing a glass of ginger ale and watching House sort through the DVDs, that he realized that had probably been House's plan all along.

"_The Beach House_?" House was saying, holding up the offending object incredulously, "_It's Complicated?_" Wilson could practically see his jaw working as he fought not to say anything scathing about the girl-ification of the condo's movie selection. It still felt weird, House trying to be nice about him and Sam. He was sure it was an effort. He almost wished House would let loose with some crack about tampon shopping or something—it would probably be a relief for everyone.

"Sam's got the TV hooked up to Netflix," he offered, deciding to put House out of his misery, "I'm sure you can find something suitably badass there."

"Well, why didn't you say so?" House said, lighting up at once.

++++++

Wilson zoned in and out in front of _Iron Man_, listening to the unmistakable sounds of House cooking. It wasn't just the drag of his leg as he maneuvered around the kitchen; there was something wholly characteristic about the way he banged the cabinets shut—completely different than the deft _click_ Sam always managed—an inimitable rhythm to the way he chopped things. Wilson didn't think it was only the hyper-acuity of fever that made him think he would recognize those sounds anywhere.

He still wasn't sure why House had camped out in his kitchen for the afternoon, though. It wasn't a complete retreat; House was answering his phone—Wilson could hear him giving terse instructions to his team, arranging things. So whatever he was avoiding was specific, didn't demand his complete disappearance.

Eventually, Wilson must have fallen asleep for real, because the next thing he knew, he was coughing himself awake. He struggled out of the blanket now draped over him and folded himself almost double, working desperately to get some air back in his lungs, eyes squeezed shut.

"Okay, okay." House's hand landed between his shoulder blades, rubbed hard up and down a few times, "no one's giving out prizes for asphyxiation today, so you can drop the drama—just breathe."

Wilson tried, he did, but the coughing was so violent it made him dizzy, and only House's steadying grip on the nape of his neck kept him from faceplanting off the couch onto the floor.

After close to a minute, though, the fit let up. Wilson slumped back against the sofa cushions, sweaty and exhausted, and let House have at him with stethoscope and thermometer. House frowned over the instruments, and started to renew his threat of stronger drugs as he dosed Wilson with antibiotics and Tylenol. He reserved a particularly dirty look for the bottle of Robitussin.

"Are you sure you went to medical school?" he asked, measuring out the cough syrup, "because I think you missed the day when they explained about prescription-strength medications. They've got this nifty little thing now called codeine, maybe you've heard of it?"

Thankfully, Wilson was saved by his cell, which chose that moment to bleat out the first few bars of "Uptown Girls."

House plucked it out of the pile of stuff on the kitchen counter, glanced at the screen, and tossed it to Wilson. _Sam_, he mouthed, as if that weren't already obvious from the ring tone.

He missed the catch, of course, everything operating at half-speed today, and it was another bar or two before he could fish it out of the cushions. He tried to clear his throat before he answered, but he still could hear himself sounding like crap when he rasped, "Hello, darling, how's Beantown?"

"Fine," she answered, "Boring. You sound terrible. How're you feeling?"

"About the same. Sounds worse than it is. You know." He stifled a cough, which only make him sound like he was choking. House had come round to stand in front of him, arms crossed, and was rolling his eyes.

"Mmm," Sam said, clearly not convinced, "Work busy? Maybe you can clear your schedule a bit?"

Suddenly, it was too hard to keep lying to her. "Actually, I came home early. Thought I'd try to sleep it off."

She knew him well enough--had certainly known him long enough--for the confession to set off an avalanche of sympathetic anxiety--Had anyone taken a look at him? Was he taking anything?--culminating with an offer to get on the next shuttle, "I can be home in a few hours," she said, "it doesn't sound like you should be alone."

"No, no don't do that; your panel is this evening—and I know you wanted to have dinner with Ruth and Pat—I'm fine," and now, when he really should lie, he found himself incapable of it-- "and anyway, um, House is here." He blamed the cough syrup.

"House." He braced himself for outrage, accusations of mayhem and incompetence, but Sam just paused for a moment, and said with grim calm, "put him on."

"Uh—okay--sure," he held the phone out, not sure what was going to happen next.

But one of them at least seemed to have their tongue on a tight rein today, thank goodness, because House just answered what seemed to be a series of factual questions--yes, bronchitis; no, not much over 101; no, nothing stronger than amoxicillin; yes, it was ridiculous, but you know what he's like; yes, I'll make sure he does--in neutral, even reassuring tones. Wilson thought his grasp on reality must have been even shakier than he realized, because he thought he heard House saying, almost kindly, "Yes, yes of course," and then, completely uncharacteristically, "don't worry."

He handed the phone back to Wilson.

"Alright, sweetheart, things seem to be under control there," Sam said, the tightness in her voice belying the confidence of her words, "House is going to stay with you tonight--and I'll be back as soon as I can tomorrow."

"Um, yeah, okay, yeah," Wilson was too shocked for a moment to say much else. Then he managed to rally, "Good luck with your talk, and have a good time tonight--I'll be fine," he found himself echoing House, "don't worry. Love you."

"Love you, too," she said, "I'll call you later," and she was gone.

He slumped back into the cushions, shocked. Then, amazement piercing the fog of fever and snot, he blurted out, "She _asked_ you to stay?"

"Oh Wilson," House said, all mocking innocence, "when will you realize that no one can resist my charm."

++++++

Wilson couldn't smell a thing, but the steam rising from the soup felt good against his face. He poked at the bowl idly with his spoon, literally too tired to eat. Like the cooking that had produced it, it was unmistakably House's soup. There was something about the precision with which the carrots had been cut, the exact ratio of chicken to vegetables, that marked it as his and no other's.

"I miss---," he said, before he could stop himself. The meds must have been making him loopy, because the gap he relied upon between thinking something and deciding whether of not to say it seemed to be completely gone.

House's head came up abruptly from his own bowl and there was a weird, awkward moment where they just looked at each other.

"Sam," House said finally, letting him off the hook, "you miss Sam."

Wilson ducked his head sheepishly, and took refuge in a sniffle. "Actually, I was going to say Amber," he said, "Sometimes I miss Amber. I'm happy with Sam. We're happy. But Amber—she was always so _there_, you know? Sometimes a little too much maybe, but you always knew she was there with you. And Sam—well, sometimes she gets a little distracted. Distracted from us. From me." He blinked, and scrubbed at his stinging eyes. Those couldn't be tears—Amber had been gone for over two years--being sick was just making his eyes water. Making him maudlin. Or—

"Did you drug the soup?" He accused, "You drugged the soup."

House was looking at him, his own gaze gone a little soft around the edges. But he firmed it up fast.

"No," he said disgustedly, "but I should have. You're a wreck. Here," he pushed the box of tissues towards Wilson, "Blow you nose."

++++++

Wilson was back on the couch, staring at the screen, puzzling over why a guy about his own age would want to dress up in a metal suit. He was pretty sure he was feeling better, though. At least as long as he didn't try to move—his limbs seemed made of lead, and even breathing was like weightlifting. Moving his head, especially, sent spikes of pain through his skull. But, yeah, given those constraints, definitely better.

House finished piling the dishes in the sink (the tidying in itself a sure index of his concern), and thumped down next to him on the couch, clicking from the movie to a Yankees game without asking.

"I was watching that," Wilson protested.

"No you weren't," House told him, "you should be in bed already."

Wilson had to admit he had a point—he was worn out.

"You don't have to stay, you know," he said, "I expect I'll survive without your tender care."

"But I promised," House answered, in a parody of earnestness.

"Uh-huh. Still avoiding—whatever it is you're avoiding?"

"Oooooo—no _way_ was that a strike," House told the TV, ignoring Wilson completely.

"In any case," Wilson said, everything seemed muffled tonight, and he didn't have the energy to get to the bottom of House's behavior, "shouldn't you at least call--?"

At that, House did shoot him a look. Scowling, he dug his phone out of his pocket, and moved almost out of earshot.

"Hey," he said, voice softening imperceptibly, "What're you wearing? Yeah, I knew you'd know—that's why I didn't call," House paused, listening—listening to something unpleasant, by the sound of his next words. "Yeah, okay, I get that, but everything worked out okay, right—so no harm done—no point in being upset." Another pause for apparent castigation, and then a defiant, "Well, I'm not," and a more conciliatory, "alright, okay, we'll talk about it later, I promise."

Wilson's interest was piqued, despite himself, and he listened more carefully.

"Still pretty under the weather," House was saying, "needs babysitting—you know what he's like—" _why did House keep saying that_? Wilson wondered, _did everyone really know what he was like, or did House just expect them to_? "So, the thing is," House said, "I promised Sam—yes, I talked to Sam—don't be like that. Well, I did," another pause, as Cuddy apparently figured it out, "No, it's not pretty: he keeps bumping into things, he's so out of it," House blithely exaggerated, "it's like _The Three Stooges_, except funnier. Look, I said we'd talk about it tomorrow, didn't I?" House, for him, was almost placating, and Cuddy seemed to acquiesce, because he listened for a bit, then said, "Yeah, me too," an edge of real feeling in his voice. Wilson thought, though he couldn't be sure, that he heard some garbled term of endearment, before House flipped the phone shut.

House flopped back onto the couch, staring stonily at the TV. "You can say it," he said after a minute, "You know you want to: short leash, whupped, yadda yadda, yadda."

"I wasn't going to say any of that," Wilson said, because he hadn't been, "I think it's great. You're trying, you know. You guys are good together."

House didn't move his eyes from the ballgame. "You're delirious." There was a long pause. "She wants me to get home early on Tuesdays—the nanny's taking some class, and she has a standing meeting."

And today was—Wilson was a little fuzzy, but not fuzzy enough not to know what day it was.

"House—you didn't—" he asked, alarm cutting through the cobwebs.

"Oh, relax. No munchkins were harmed in the making of this day," House said irritably, "I sent Taub."

That was wrong on so many levels, but Wilson still breathed a sigh of relief. At least Rachel hadn't been unexpectedly abandoned.

"But why?" He asked, "I'm not that sick—you could've left."

"What're you thinking?" House said, outraged, and for a minute Wilson thought he'd gotten his answer, but the sentiments turned out to be directed at the Yankees' pitching staff, "his arm's shot—get him outta there already."

Wilson waited. And sure enough, after a few minutes, House circled back around. "I don't know," he said, dredging the words up from some dark place, "Maybe I'm just not reliable. They shouldn't rely on me. Rachel shouldn't have to rely on me."

It hurt to listen to, and Wilson's first impulse was to comfort, to reassure; but he thought maybe House needed to hear something else.

"That's what's known as a self-fulfilling prophecy," he said, "Technically speaking. And it doesn't matter. If you two are going make it work, you're going to have to rely on each other, whether you're suited for it or not. Make each other your first priority." He started to say _Ahead of me_, but stopped, brought up short by the unexpected pain of the thought.

House stared at him for a moment, something naked and confused in his eyes. Then they shuttered closed. "Go to bed, Wilson," he said dismissively, "You stopped making sense about three hours ago."

++++++

Wilson took his time getting ready—ran the hot water in the shower for a while, letting the steam break up the gunk in his lungs.

When he came out of the bathroom, House was perched on Sam's side of the bed, rifling through the stack of books on her nightstand, relationship woes apparently forgotten.

"_The Time Traveler's Wife_?" He gestured at the book, eye-brows arcing, "I thought all the better book clubs had read that one already."

"It's very romantic," Wilson said wearily, climbing into his own side, "and beautifully written."

House snorted.

"I'm going to sleep," Wilson said, "make yourself at home, if you must—you know where everything is. Except _that_\--" he added, catching the glint in House's eye, "_that_ is no longer here."

"Pity," House pouted, "I was looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with Madame Schatzi and her bevy of eager German schoolgirls."

"Goodnight, House," Wilson said, rolling away from him, and pulling the covers up to his chin.

He wouldn't have put it past House to sit there and watch him sleep, but, after a minute, the other man levered himself to his feet, flicked off the overhead light, and pulled the door exactly halfway shut.

"Goodnight, Wilson," House said.

+++++

Wilson was pretty sure he would crash immediately—he was tired enough, despite having spent the day lying around, and he had enough drugs circulating in his system. But he could only manage a shallow doze—the sheets felt scratchy and hot, and the breath catching in his lungs kept jarring him awake. He must have tossed and turned like that for a few hours before he heard the front door opening, high-heels tapping on hard-wood floor of the entry-way.

"Hey." House sounded surprised, maybe a little wary.

Wilson half-expected it to be Cuddy, come to haul House home herself, but it was Sam who answered. "Hey."

There was an awkward pause, and then Sam continued in a rush-- "There was a seat on the last shuttle—so I figured—I mean, I thought it made sense to—" as if she were vaguely embarrassed to have hurried home to tend to her ill boyfriend.

"Yeah," House said, equally off-kilter.

Another pause.

"How is he?' Sam finally asked.

"Sick." House answered tersely, "But he should be okay in a few days. If you can get him to take it easy and swallow enough meds, that is."

"Yeah," Sam laughed a little, "I know what he's like. Thanks. I'm just gonna—"

"Yeah. Right. Of course--"

Wilson heard Sam's footsteps coming down the hall, and the sliver of light in the room widened as she opened the door. He pushed himself up a bit to tell her he was awake, but the movement set him coughing for real.

Instantly, Sam had slipped onto the bed, nudged in next to him, and gently drawn him over so he was propped against her.

"Oh baby," she said, "I'm sorry you're feeling so shitty—you poor thing." She wrapped one hand around his head, carding through his hair, slid the other down the front of his pajamas, rubbed circles on his aching chest.

Despite himself, Wilson tensed for a moment. Sam's ready warmth, her easy touches, felt strange, almost wrong, after a day spent under House's astringent, irritating, yet comfortingly familiar, care. But the smooth skin of her neck was cool on his hot cheek, the curve of her breasts soft against his back, and he gradually relaxed into her embrace. He was lucky to have this now, to have her. She curled herself around him more tightly, murmuring some kind of wordless comfort.

"You didn't have to hurry back," he wheezed, as soon as he had breath to speak.

"Don't be silly," she said, "It was just as easy to come tonight as tomorrow morning. And, besides, I hated thinking about you being alone.

_But I wasn't alone_, he wanted to remind her; she had just spoken to House in the hallway, after all, had asked him to stay herself. Wilson wondered, briefly, how much of her coming back had been about regretting that decision, had been about staking her claim.

But he tamped down the ungenerous thought. "I'm glad you're back," he said instead, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing the palm.

The front door clicked shut as House let himself out.

_fin_   



End file.
